


Thirty

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-11
Updated: 2010-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-06 04:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione spends the evening of her thirtieth birthday in a sleazy East End pub, all alone until an old acquaintance unexpectedly walks through the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty

**Author's Note:**

> **Dedication:** Written for Pinkwands in the first round of the Lucius/Hermione exchange at LJ.  
> **Disclaimer:** The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine. Written for fun, not profit  
> **Warnings:** EWE, infidelity/adultery, some snark and bitterness, a brief sexual scene. Also, Ron isn't portrayed in a terribly favourable light, so if you're very fond of him, you may wish to skip this story.

Hermione Weasley rarely drinks alcohol, aside from a polite glass of wine on special occasions, and she certainly never touches anything as strong as Whiskey.

Hermione Weasley isn't in the habit of frequenting sleazy East End pubs, either.

Or rather, she didn't use to be.

Today, however, the usual rules don't apply. Today, everything is different.

Sitting at her solitary table in the corner, gazing at the dripping candle in front of her and nursing her glass of thirty-year-old Scotch, she can't quite pinpoint the precise reasons for the change, though she has a niggling suspicion that her loving husband forgetting her birthday may have been the final straw. The umpteenth in a long line of unspoken insults has pushed her over the edge at last.

_Oh dear, this Whiskey's the same age as I am now_, she considers bitterly and shakes her head, the logical side of her mind wondering how things could have ever gone so horribly wrong.

It all seemed so wonderful in the beginning. She'd been in love with Ron for as long as she could remember—for as long as she'd been capable of harbouring such feelings for anyone—and after years of silently hoping and putting up with Lavender and other infatuations of his, she finally won his heart, though he insisted it had been hers all along. Funny, how someone who was so socially inept in other areas still knew how to bring on the sweet talk when it mattered, and even more amazing how someone with her vast intelligence could fall for such empty words.

Regardless, the two of them tied the knot shortly after leaving school—too soon, undoubtedly, in hindsight—and moved into a small flat in Camden, and for a while, life was perfect. They bickered regularly, of course, but then they always had. It kept things fresh, challenging, honest… Or so she once thought.

That was before the job offer came, a position with the Chudley Cannons.

The team's owners had their hopes set on Harry Potter originally, on his renowned Seeker skills, but perhaps even more on his fame, which was bound to bring them truckloads of publicity, no matter how many matches they'd win.

Harry, however, had other plans. He wasn't interested in pursuing any of those obvious career plans certain people expected from him. He had no desire to capture Dark wizards for a living, nor did the prospect of a professional Quidditch career hold much appeal. Instead, he wanted to be free and independent. Thus, he returned to the Muggle world to salvage things with his Aunt Petunia, who'd become a rather different person since divorcing Vernon, and to find a regular job. He runs a small coffee shop these days, and claims to enjoy the work immensely.

Initially, Hermione was somewhat disappointed by his decision to leave it all behind, but even after all this time, he still keeps in touch via his new owl and every blue moon, he meets her for a drink, so she supposes it's not too bad; it's not like she has lost her best friend.

Though in many ways, somewhere along the line, she did lose her husband.

When Harry politely declined the Cannons' proposition, they decided to approach Ron, which was rather a surprise in itself; Ron's Quidditch skills were passable, but nothing compared to Harry's, or well, quite a few other people's, come to mention it.

Nonetheless, the Cannons made him an offer and he grabbed it instantly, with both hands, not caring for even one second that he hadn't been their first choice or that, in a fashion, he'd have to play second fiddle to Harry Potter once again.

Hermione wouldn't have stood for that sort of thing, not in a million years, especially seeing how there were so many other jobs he could have done, even Quidditch-related things. He could have become an instructor, followed in Hooch's footsteps after she retired. He had always been brilliant with children, after all.

Hermione smiles wryly and takes another swig from her drink. Children, that's another topic one had better not get her started on.

After nearly ten years of marriage… Still no baby.

It's disappointing, and not only to Molly, who has probably abandoned all hope of her youngest son ever giving her grandchildren.

Hermione has pretty much given up on the idea, too. She always hoped she'd be a mum some day, even when she took that position with the Ministry—other women manage to combine a family with a successful career, so there was no reason why she wouldn't be able to—but in order to get pregnant, one's husband needs to be home.

He also has to show an interest, and when was the last time Ron treated her as someone desirable?

Ah yes. Christmas Eve three years ago, when he was so drunk he passed out before anything could even happen.

She sighs sadly at the memory and looks up when the pub door loudly swings open, her gaze inexplicably drawn to the tall, thin man who strides in through the thick veil of cigarette smoke.

Hermione blinks. Then she blinks again and does a double take.

No, her eyes aren't deceiving her. It's none other than Lucius Malfoy who saunters towards the bar.

*

It would be an outright lie to call their conversation cordial, or even borderline polite, but then, all things considered, there is no reason why it should be, either. She has never particularly liked him, and she's certain he, for his part, hasn't spared her a single favourable thought in his entire life.

She wonders why she even went over and invited him to join her. The sensible thing would have been to just ignore him, or maybe even leave the pub so that any possible confrontations might have been avoided altogether.

Perhaps tonight, something inside of her is simply stuck on self-destruct.

Still, he's surprisingly easy to talk to, or rather, to vent at. He mostly listens and smirks, but sometimes his retorts are startlingly insightful, or…. completely unexpected, just like what he says next.

"Ronald Weasley was never anywhere near good enough for you."

Hermione blinks. For a long, silent moment, she searches his face for a sign of irony or mockery. She can't detect a single one, but of course, that doesn't necessarily mean anything in his case. He'd make a brilliant poker player if that were a wizard's game.

"Not good enough?" she challenges. "For a Mudblood?" An ugly sneer accompanies her question. She still hasn't forgotten the horrible insults Draco Malfoy used to throw at her, all those nasty, hate-filled words she's convinced he first heard from his father.

"Sewer rats should only fornicate with their own species," he replies with a slight smirk. "Ronald Weasley being the rat, in case I didn't make myself abundantly clear."

Hermione returns the smirk. She wouldn't, under normal circumstances, call Ronald a rat—and why does that suddenly sound so familiar? It wasn't Ronald, though, if she remembers correctly; Roland, maybe?

Today, however, normal seems to have fled the country and shows no signs of making an imminent return.

"You were perfectly clear," she says. "The clarification wasn't necessary at all."

"Oh. Good."

"I'm not an idiot, you know."

"I never implied you were," he retorts dryly. "Merely that you chose to wed one."

Hermione rolls her eyes, but can think of nothing to say to that, so for an undetermined amount of minutes, the two of them sit there in silence.

She finishes her Whiskey—its strong taste no longer makes her flinch—and he takes another sip from his Guinness. Something about all this is almost amusing; Lucius Malfoy, infamous former Death Eater, enjoying a pint of Muggle beer.

Almost amusing, but not quite, because, really, there's nothing funny about having to spend your thirtieth birthday this way.

Hermione takes a deep breath and studies Malfoy's face. He hasn't changed much since she last saw him. He looks a bit older, somewhat more tired and worry-worn, but he still carries himself with a confidence that's unsettlingly attractive.

She noticed his appeal before today, of course—even at his arrest, something about him was almost irresistible—and every time she did, it only infuriated her further. Why are the evil ones always so damned appealing?

Tonight, for some inexplicable reason, the obvious attraction she feels doesn't anger her. Instead, it drives her to act, and to do something else she'd normally never do.

"Take me home," she tells him, her tone direct and deadly serious.

"I beg your pardon?" Lucius regards her with a quizzical frown.

"Isn't that why you come here?" she asks. "To meet someone for a one-night-stand? It's why most men frequent places like this."

He doesn't reply initially, but she isn't buying into his silent denial, not even for a second. It's common knowledge that Narcissa left him years ago, ran off with one of his… _associates_. His ego must have taken a major beating, and he definitely isn't the type who enjoys living without female adoration either.

"I only come here to drink," he tells her.

"To a Muggle pub?"

"Muggle beverages are surprisingly agreeable, I've found. And as I'm certain you've also noticed, people here mind their own business. Anonymity is a wonderful thing, wouldn't you agree?"

Hermione frowns and then nods slowly. He definitely has a point, but nonetheless…. "I still believe you should take me home," she tells him, sounding as insistent as anyone can when they're intoxicated to the point of slurring every other word.

"Why?" he asks flatly.

For all her eloquence, Hermione can only shrug.

"To do what exactly, Mrs Weasley?" he enquires.

"Anything we feel like," she tells him, still sounding serious and determined. "And my name is Granger, Hermione Granger. I married a Weasley. I didn't turn into one."

"For your sake, I should hope not," Lucius remarks before finishing his pint. "But, I daresay it's time you went home, Hermione Granger. Little Ronald will be wondering where you got to."

"Right now, I don't give a damn about bloody Ronald," she says, and narrowly resists slamming her fist down on the table. "So, will you take me home or not?"

Lucius shakes his head, smirks, and rises from his chair. "Very well. If you insist. Come along, then."

*

Hermione wakes up in a strange bed, fully dressed save for her shoes and with a foul taste in her mouth that reminds her of old socks.

She carefully squints one eye open, wary of the sunlight that seeps in through the gap between the dark, drawn curtains. It must be mid-morning if not noon already.

She sighs in relief when in her line of vision she notices the small vial standing on the bedside table. She immediately recognises it as Hangover Potion. She has never had to use the stuff herself, of course, but Ron takes it now and again; his nights out with the lads from his team tend to get a bit rowdy.

Struggling to ignore the merciless hammering in her head, Hermione reaches for the vial, downs its contents in one swift gulp and flinches briefly; the concoction tastes even nastier than expected.

Gingerly, she lies back down, shuts her eyes once more and slowly counts to ten. That's how long it usually takes for the potion to kick in, or at least it does for Ron.

She opens her eyes again and blinks when she spots something else, a small pile of clothes neatly folded on the chair next to the bed. Lucius actually provided her with a change of clothing, even after she…

Hermione cringes. The memories of last night are fast flooding back to her.

Arriving at Lucius Malfoy's place—not Malfoy Manor, but a luxurious loft on the better side of London—she practically threw herself at the man, before promptly…

Hermione cringes a second time. Yes, she did in fact pass out; _how utterly embarrassing. _ This is the reason why she doesn't drink. She isn't used to it, never has been, and there's too much sadness and bitterness lurking in her heart and it all bursts to the surface so easily, so eagerly, once she loses control.

Well, she consoles herself, at least nothing too terrible has happened. At least she's safe. Imagine if she'd gone home with one of those other men from the pub… No, she'd better not let her thoughts stray in that direction.

Her headache completely gone now, she studies her surroundings more thoroughly. It's clearly a guest room she's staying in; there's nothing personal about it; it reminds her of a hotel room. Perhaps this is where Draco sleeps when he comes to visit his father, assuming he ever does. Rumour has it that things went very wrong in the Malfoy family when Narcissa left. Hermione doesn't know any of the details, but what she did hear about it back then was pretty awful.

Turning her head to the left, she sees the open door that leads to an en-suite bathroom. She sighs and looks at the clothes again.

What she's wearing now reeks of cigarette smoke with a faint hint of something more suspicious some of the Muggle punters were smoking. She can't go home like this. She can't go anywhere like this and she's too tired to get rid of that smell by using magic.

Hermione shakes her head, rises from the bed, grabs the clothes from the chair and heads into the bathroom. A shower should do her a world of good, and after that…

Yes. Time to stop dallying about, and face the music.

*

Lucius Malfoy is sitting on the living room settee, reading. When Hermione enters, he looks up from his book and gives her a slight smirk. "Ah, Granger, back in the land of the living, I see."

"Lu-Malfoy," she replies, as neutrally as she possibly can, even though she's certain he can hear the anxiety in her voice. "I-I suppose I should thank you."

He raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Thank me?"

"F-For not…" Hermione starts to blush. No, she'll definitely never touch booze again, not even that polite glass of wine. From this day forward, she'll be a teetotaller, _thank you very much_; that'll be a lot safer all around.

"For not taking advantage of the situation," she at last finishes lamely, "or of me."

Lucius crosses his arms. "There is no need to thank me for that," he snaps. "What kind of man do you suppose I am?"

At his angry reaction, Hermione feels some of her fire returning. Funny how he always manages to push her buttons, and seemingly without even the slightest effort. "Do you really want me to answer that?" she asks, a small sneer curling around her mouth.

He rolls his eyes, determined not to take the bait. "I suggest you have a cup of coffee before you leave, and I will ask my elf to see about transportation. A taxi perhaps? I doubt whether you're in a fit state to Apparate home."

"Oh, but I think I'll risk it regardless," she says quickly, dismissively, not at all keen on the idea of accepting his help. She has her pride, after all, and besides, she feels perfectly fine now, stone cold sober.

"I'd much rather you didn't," he tells her. "If you end up Splinching yourself, Granger, I don't particularly fancy explaining to some parchment-pusher from the Ministry why there are pieces of Harry Potter's best friend scattered all over my parquet." He gives her a pointed look. "So you will take that taxi. You are free to pay for it yourself if that would make you feel better."

Hermione blinks. She hasn't a clue where her next words stem from, though she supposes it's safe to assume he's the one who spurred them on. Perhaps he's as much to blame for this whole twisted situation as she is. He has always fascinated her and challenged her, too, whether purposely or otherwise.

Come to mention it, he tested her even more than Professor Snape did, albeit on a completely different level.

Snape was always pretty hard on her in class. He was far stricter with her than with any of the others, and he never openly praised her work, no matter how good a job she was convinced she'd done.

However, as time passed, she began to realise that, in his own way, he was actually helping her. The way he treated her, especially his tendency to be unimpressed, drove her to be more diligent. It made her consider things more critically rather than just accept a theory without question, simply because it was what she'd read in a book. When Snape provoked her, it was purely for her own benefit, certainly not with some ulterior motive or for personal gain.

Lucius Malfoy, on the other hand… He taunts for the thrill of it.

The man is bad news. Even now, when he has supposedly realised the error of his ways and has even acknowledged publicly, on more than one occasion, the flaws in his thinking back then when he was a powerful Death Eater and avidly supported… Voldemort. Yes, she can still say the name in her head. If needed, she'll say it aloud, too, over and over again. There is nothing to fear.

She certainly isn't frightened of Lucius, either.

She's not a little girl anymore. Insults no longer affect her. She has risen above them. Moreover, nothing Lucius might dish out could ever beat Ron's ever-increasing indifference. She'd choose hatred over apathy any day, and apathy is something she'll have to face again soon enough.

Yes, quite soon.

But not just yet…

She takes a deep breath, and says, her tone sounding almost businesslike, "Tell me, Malfoy, was it honestly out of the kindness of your heart that you decided to turn me down last night? Or was it simply because to you, I'm a filthy Mudblood you wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole?"

Lucius frowns. For a long moment, he says nothing, but then, just as she starts to wonder whether she should leave, he replies bluntly, "If I didn't know any better, Granger, I'd take that remark to imply that you actually wanted me to exploit the situation." He shakes his head. His facial expression is one of complete exasperation. "Women. You never can decide on what it is you really want and then damned well stick to it, can you?"

"What?! But, I-" Hermione crosses her arms. Last night's despair and loneliness come flooding back to her in a rush, along with the sinking realisation of how wretchedly undesirable she feels these days, all because of bloody Ronald… "Of course I didn't," she snaps, but it's too late; her prior hesitation has already given her away.

Lucius rises from his chair and strides towards her. "If you were to repeat the offer, Hermione," he says slowly, enunciating every syllable and never taking his eyes off her. "Well, you must realise yourself that you are an attractive young woman and while I still feel that revealing our way of life—in short, Wizarding Society—to Muggles would be a terrible idea, and although I remain convinced that not all Muggleborn wizards and witches should be encouraged to use their magical skills, much less develop them further, my opinions have… mellowed somewhat over the years. Still, none of that changes the fact that you are…"

Hermione holds her breath. He's standing right in front of her now. She can see the light freckles scattered around his nose; funny, those small, irrelevant details one notices at the strangest of times.

"A married woman," he says in conclusion, and gives her a pointed look.

"That never stopped your wife," she snaps before she can stop herself. She knows it's a nasty thing to say, a low blow no matter how one chooses to look at it, but she couldn't care less. He angers her. He infuriates her to the point of rudeness, but above all, he makes her feel alive.

He steps even closer. For a moment there, he looks like he's about to hit her. Hermione gulps. He won't actually, will he?

Just one more step...

Has she taken this too far? She never considered he might resort to physical violence. Perhaps she should have done, though. He was practically Voldemort's right hand for years, for Merlin's sake!

Either way, this has gone past the point of verbal sparring. This isn't a game anymore.

"I," she begins, but whatever she wants to say—nothing in particular, certainly nothing planned, just quickly thrown together words with an apology among them somewhere because this isn't how she normally acts—she doesn't get the chance to speak. With one swift, unexpected move, Lucius grabs her by the shoulders, pulls her to him and kisses her roughly.

Hermione's head is reeling. She doesn't even stop to think before she kisses him back; it's the only course of action that makes sense, or at least as much as anything can in these surreal circumstances.

Besides, being this close to him is thrilling, exhilarating, and _God,_ Ron never kissed her like this…

After what feels like forever and still doesn't last nearly long enough, he abruptly releases her and asks, breathing hard, "Does this answer your question?"

Hermione blinks. She's as affected by all of this as he is, if not even more so, and yet… She's also overcome with a sudden sense of clarity. Or is it insanity? It's hard to tell. But does it even matter?

"Well," she says. "Your reaction, it… it was not what I expected, but, well, it still doesn't exactly prove anything."

He frowns.

"I'm not drunk at present," she continues matter-of-factly. "Nor is there anything else muddling my mind. So nothing was stopping you just now, nothing in the world was holding you back, and yet… you stopped."

He quirks an eyebrow and studies her face for a moment, his own expression completely unreadable. "You're entirely serious about this, aren't you?" he at last says.

Hermione bites her lip. Is she? This is a chance to back out, the last one, her final opportunity to run, to return home to the familiar drear and dread of...

"Yes," she says. The word slips past her lips before she realises, but she'd rather die than take it back. "I am."

For a moment there, he looks stumped, but only for a moment. Then he takes her in his arms and kisses her again.

She neither knows who moves first, nor does she notice how long it takes them to reach that point, but the next thing she's aware of, she's standing with her back against the wall. His lips are on her neck, one of his hands is resting on her left shoulder while the other is up her skirt, pulling her knickers down slowly.

She moans when his long, slim fingers begin to stroke her. It's been so long since anyone but herself touched her there, too long by far.

"Ready?" he asks, his warm breath tickling her left ear.

"Yes," she whispers, somewhat surprised by the question; it seems oddly polite and strangely out of place. _"Yes."_

Without another word, he pushes himself inside her and begins to move. It's faster and more rough than what she's used to, but then she wasn't expecting anything less than heated and urgent and…

Gestures of affection would ruin this. There's no need to try to turn it into something it isn't and never should be. She doesn't care about him, and she's certain she holds no special place in his heart, either.

This is honest.

This is _perfect_.

She throws her head back and moans when her climax hits her much more quickly than she expected. He isn't far behind; two more thrusts before he moans his release against her neck and spills himself inside her.

As soon as he's done, he lets go of her and takes a large step backwards.

Hermione inhales sharply. She reaches for the sideboard to keep her balance and tries to ignore the way her knees are shaking.

"Now," Lucius says, not bothering to turn around while he readjusts his robes, "I believe you must be on your way."

"Yes," she replies awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes, before she bends down and picks her knickers up off the floor.

A sudden tingle runs up and down her spine. She looks at him. Her questioning gaze is focused on the wand in his right hand.

"A contraceptive spell," he says. "A blond-haired child would rouse a certain amount of suspicion, don't you agree?"

"Y-Yes. Right," she mumbles, grabbing the cloak he lent her—she can't remember throwing it over that chair—and quickly makes for the door.

"Granger," he calls after her.

Hermione turns around.

His smile is odd. The flicker of hope it seems to hold initially, fast changes into something a tad more sinister. "I frequent that… watering hole every Thursday evening, just in case you were wondering."

Hermione blinks. "Goodbye, Lucius."

She turns on her heel and with swift steps strides out of his apartment and down three flights of stairs. She climbs into the taxi, which has somehow appeared and is waiting for her, and shakes her head.

She can't believe Lucius Malfoy has the sheer nerve to assume she'd ever consider doing this again.

She can't believe he may be right, either.


End file.
